Because I’m still reeling from realizing how one-sided my blog has become, I decided that this week I wanted to shift gears and talk about what I believe in. Basically, I believe in the stars.
Six weeks ago yesterday I got a third piercing in my right ear. Call me a twenty-year-old, but it’s one I never plan on taking out, but wearing always. It’s my cross. (Plus, by buying these earrings I made a donation to the Make a Wish foundation, and who doesn’t like them?)
When I was a Mormon, looking at the stars freaked me out, especially when camping and away from city lights. They made me feel small. They made everything I had ever known or made or met or thought or seen small. The vastness of the universe drove into my young brain a helpless feeling of insignificance.
(Plus the LDS religion teaches that God lives on a planet called “Kolob” that is circling among the stars, watching you. And that’s just a little bit creepy.)
I’m not saying dropping the Mormon religion made my anxiety over the nighttime sky disappear (although for other anxieties, that’s perfectly true). But without a “God Made the World in 7 Days” roadmap, I started paying a lot more attention to science. And that’s how I fell in love with the Big Bang.
For official NASA explanations, click here: http://science.nasa.gov/astrophysics/focus-areas/what-powered-the-big-bang/
For my summary, read below:
At the beginning of the conceivable universe, we were a star. A giant whopping star, and when I say we, I mean everything: Humans, animals, plants, water, suns, planets, solar systems. All encompassed within a giant star. In an event known as the Big Bang, the star exploded and sent its stuff into all space. When the stuff settled after the galactic sneeze, the piece we know as earth was a molten ball. Without an atmosphere, comets pummeled it over and over and over again, each time leaving small deposits of water behind. Out of this water eventually grew algae, and after the eternity it took to gain an atmosphere, the first forms of everything crawled out of the puddles.
With a universal relative like the nighttime sky, I click perfectly, knowing each person and place and thing is the literal stuff of stars. It forms this big fuzzy ball of comfort in my chest. Everything is beautiful and miraculous, a series of incredibly complex chemical and electrical accidents that form every amazing thing I do and breathe and see. The fact that I am so tiny fits into the larger puzzle so perfectly—the inevitable heat death of the universe is now a mural on the walls of my mind. It works. We were all together and we all will be again, and there’s something so tenderly wonderful in that. Reincarnation is possible on this inconceivably huge, universal scale. And it doesn’t scare me.
The Book of Mormon tells me over and over again that I am “less than the dirt of the earth.” Every cell in my body screams that I am star dust. I am not a cog in a deity’s machine. My life is a miracle.
My beliefs still have room for a god–after all, you have to explain where the giant star came from–but knowing that we are all stars, I just don’t see why anyone needs a god.